


for your eyes only (i'll show you my heart)

by Fiselis



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angry Jaskier | Dandelion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sharing a Bed, and there was only one bed, but he doesnt know, not that bad though i dont think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-23 07:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23474950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiselis/pseuds/Fiselis
Summary: Jaskier never regretted his songs. However, ringing clear in his ears, a cacophony of a single phrase. A phrase he wrote. Friend of humanity, huh.He doubted that, very much.-----Anger wasn't something Jaskier was well acquainted with, he preferred to stick with his usual love-drunk yearning. Learning to live with this new, pent up fire was painful, and he couldn't wait for the moment where he could finally let go.But Geralt wasn't the same. The look in his eyes, just a single look, and that fire nearly died out in an instant. It seemed that, no matter how many times Jaskier was thrust away, he couldn't help the fact that he never wanted to let go. Not again. Not ever.And then, one time, he didn't.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 22
Kudos: 460





	for your eyes only (i'll show you my heart)

**Author's Note:**

> this draft was called "toss a coin to ur depressed bard"
> 
> online school and quarantine has me FUCKED UP. i wrote this in a frenzy and put more effort into it in four days than i have in my classes for four weeks. im doing great
> 
> apologies if theres anything ooc, this is my first time writing for these two, but there might be cases where i purposefully make them ooc for the sake of my gremlin little brain. this wasn't beta read either, but none of my stuff is, so *shrug emoji*
> 
> either way, hope you enjoy! i enjoyed writing it!

Calloused fingertips plucked and pulled at the well worn strings of the lute. Calloused, but in ways dissimilar to the Witcher, to the Butcher of Blaviken, to the White Wolf, to Geralt, he who had made a life of fighting for those who could not fight for themselves. No, Jaskier’s were not of swordsmanship, of wielding a blade of steel. Rather, he found his taste for steel in the strings, each strum a note ringing clear, accompanied by the hum or trill of his own voice.

  
Lounging there, ankles crossed as he looked out upon the river, Jaskier tried not to think. He tried to focus on the rising sun, the orangey yellow glow it cast upon the forest. He let his eyes trace the reflections upon the river, its mirrorlike surface bewitching in the morning sun. But nothing worked. Not even his music, the biggest distraction in his _life_ , was not enough now.

Well, maybe not quite the biggest.

Jaskier hummed, a mournful sound less of a song and more of an exit of pent up emotions. Emotions he now realized with disdain, has had pent up for an absurd amount of time. Absurdity. That word seemed to come up all too often.

The sounds coming from his lute were harsh, he realized, borderline snapping a string with the grip he had. He sighed, unclenching his jaw and loosening the muscles he didn’t know he had tensed, and set his lute on his lap. He was _angry_. At Yennefer, at Geralt, the both of them.

_Himself._

He scowled, standing up sharply, the lute flying onto the ground with a soft _thunk!_ Jaskier let out a noise he didn’t know he could make, kicking up a flurry of rocks that soared for a moment, only to splash down into the river, destroying its glasslike smoothness. He had intended for the burst of energy to settle himself, but it did the opposite. He watched in irritation as the stones cast ripples throughout the water, the interference splashing slightly as they met head on. Constructive. Destructive.

“Every goddamn time!” Jaskier shouted, his voice high and scratchy. “ _Jaskier_ , you’ve done it again! Practically begging people to kick you to the side with your--your _obnoxious_ , your _insufferable_ \--”

  
“Jaskier.”

Jaskier froze at the sound of his name. A sound unfamiliar. To be fair, his name was familiar, obviously, but the… the _voice_ , the specific voice saying it, that wasn’t--

He turned around, looking at Geralt with a startled, but rather emotionless expression. He shook his head slowly, then shook it harder, raising a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He laughed, a noise that came out breathy and dark, too low to be anything besides angry. “What, did I get an upgrade from just _’bard’_? Did it take you this long just to learn my name? I thought a witcher would have better memory, but I suppose old age does do something to the brain--”

“ _Jaskier._ ”

Ah, again he rambled, and again Geralt stopped him. Yes, maybe he talked too much, but maybe it was because _someone_ had to. Maybe it was because he couldn’t stand the silence. _Maybe_ it was the sound of his own thoughts that were far too painful to bear than any amount of yammering he could manage to spit out.

Geralt stood rather far away, refusing to get too close to the bard. Though he was still close enough for Jaskier to make out the details he had become so accustomed to. The tired look in his golden-yellow eyes, the loose strands of that white hair he remembered repeatedly brushing the knots out of, the frown that seemed to worsen the longer he looked at him.

“What, _Witcher_ ,” Jaskier spat back, fists clenching at his sides. “Anything else you wanted to say to me, before I get out of your hair for good this time? Better hurry up, _Yennefer_ is probably waiting for you--”

“I came to apologize,” Geralt, with all the charm of a half-squashed cockroach, murmured stiffly.

Jaskier stared at him, disbelieving, for a solid minute. That disbelief shifted in a second, melting into a fury even Geralt had never witnessed on him before. He swore he saw the witcher flinch the slightest bit the moment his lips curled into a snarl.

“You have the _audacity_ to--Geralt, I don’t have the time for your… your _half-assed_ apologies,” Jaskier lets out that cold laugh again, aggressively resting his hands on his hips as he continues. “Not like I’ve ever actually _experienced_ one to begin with, now that I think about it. I’d indulge you in a bit more of my time, truly, but I think this… performance of yours should end before I end it myself.”

He doesn’t wait for his response, just picking up his things in a disorganized flurry. He swings his lute over his shoulder, as well as his bag, refusing to look at the witcher who stands in silence. Silence! Again with that unbearable silence.

“I shouldn’t have yelled, Jask, I--” Geralt’s voice is soft, but his face is still stiff. Jaskier gives him a once over, his anger fading to disappointment.

Jaskier marches forward. Geralt doesn’t move, doesn’t try to stop him, doesn’t even flinch as the bard barrels into his shoulder.

“Save it. If it’s important, then just save it till I’m dead,” Jaskier hisses, refusing to turn around. “Surely you’ll survive long enough for that. Then again, not sure if I really want you at my grave. Goodbye, Geralt.”

“I just wanted--”

“No, Geralt, we are _done_ as you have so clearly shown me. I will say one last time, good _bye_ , Geralt.” He hears the witcher shift to watch him leave, but the bard does not stop. The woods invite him in, hiding him away from that golden gaze that burned his back. Another familiar feeling he was terrified to lose, but either stubbornness or anger refused to give into.

Jaskier never regretted his songs. However, ringing clear in his ears, a cacophony of a single phrase. A phrase _he_ wrote. Friend of humanity, huh.

He doubted that, very much.

\-----

Fate was a thing Jaskier loved to write about. Fated lovers, destiny, it was all key to a great story. However, it wasn’t the same when it revolved around himself. Whatever terrible thing he had done in a past life could never be equal to the amount of anguish being tied to that damned witcher brought upon him. How could he ever have thought he’d be able to escape?

And so his story continues, years later, in a tavern not unlike the one where they had first met. Though, Jaskier was putting on a different kind of show this time around. He ignored the burning stare, trying his hardest to focus on the woman carelessly rubbing every inch of her body all over him. He felt sick. If he kept that sour expression on his face, the witcher would be winning, and he could _not_ let that happen. Jaskier brought up a hand to the woman's hair, tugging her down into a kiss.

And as he did so, biting back the bile that threatened him at the back of his throat, he could _swear_ that he could feel that gaze burn ever hotter.

He couldn’t help it. Couldn’t help but force himself to look at him, pulling out of the kiss with puffy, parted lips, chest heaving only slightly. Their gazes locked, emotionless gold and icy blue. But it was not coldness that Geralt bore witness to through Jaskier’s gaze. It was anger, anger identical to the same day he had left him. Just as fiery and bold, he honestly felt like if he stared for too long he might be burned, but he refused to back down.

Something in Jaskier shifted, his expression tight with irritation suddenly softening, looking immensely tired. His gaze flicks downwards slightly, that fire in his eyes extinguishing. He blinked slowly back up at Geralt, but this time it was nothing but grief.

Geralt swallowed tightly. The bard focused his attention back on the woman, rising slightly to whisper something clearly tantalizing in her ear. The woman gets up in a flurry of giggles, forcing herself to leave Jaskier’s lap. She walked with a sway of her hips, only breaking the heavy eye contact when she eventually had to turn to walk upstairs to, presumably, the bard’s room.

  
The bard, however, lost his smile the moment she turned.

Geralt watched him, sipping his ale with a curious look. He was bad with emotions, but he could tell that Jaskier was feeling _a lot_ at the moment. Even he, who always seemed so attuned to his own feelings, seemed to be drowning in them.

Jaskier’s eyes snapped to Geralt, his frown once again deepening as he looked the witcher over. Ah, he understood. The bard wouldn’t be the one to initiate, much to Geralt’s slight dismay. He stood with a grimace, taking his ale with him, and lumbered over to the bard.

Jaskier eyed him with disdain, his lips pursed tightly, his arms crossed as he watched the witcher sit across from him.

“How quaint, the White Wolf still acts a friend of humanity,” Jaskier sneers, kicking himself mentally for speaking first. This was _not_ how he had imagined it going. He had a mental script he had slaved over for years, and he had already ruined the part where he was supposed to silently listen to Geralt's begs for forgiveness.

Okay, looking back that _might_ have been a bit unrealistic.

Geralt doesn’t say a word. Jaskier’s lip twitched, the words continuing to pour out, undeterred.

“A friend of humanity, maybe, but no friend to man,” Jaskier’s voice is quiet, his voice cracking slightly as he continues. “No friend to me.”

“Jaskier--”

“Geralt, I have waited _years_ to see your damn face again,” Jaskier bursts out, slamming a fist onto the table. The patrons of the tavern eye them, but Jaskier ignores it. “And here you are, sitting across from me acting like nothing ever happened, like you never--you never…”

“I hurt you,” Geralt says gruffly. Jaskier tries to ignore the genuine emotion in that, however little. He knows that, at least in Geralt’s case, that was a lot for him to manage.

“You did. Countless times. And I _forgave_ you, Geralt, because maybe I felt that deep down I didn’t deserve you,” Jaskier’s voice goes soft, breathy the longer he speaks. “That I knew whatever we had, it was never meant to last. But I still--”

“--got attached. I know,” Geralt sighs, clasping his hands together on the table. “I did, too.”

“Did you, or is your guilty little brain of yours forcing that out, to ease my petty human suffering?” Jaskier scowls. “Geralt, you call your so-called lack of emotions a curse, but I cannot help but feel like I would pay any lump of gold in the world to be like you.”

“I have emotions, Jaskier,” Geralt grunts, shaking his head slightly.

“Then why have you never bothered to prove it, hm? Why am I always looking like an idiot for _feeling_ , hm, Geralt? _Why_?!”

Geralt stares at him, then breaks the contact to take a long sip of his ale. “I was wrong, Jaskier. About a lot of things. Most of them revolve around you.”

“Oh, make _me_ the bad guy, I see--”

“Let me _talk_.”

Jaskier blinks in surprise at the sudden aggression, the twitch of Geralt’s lips, the way he takes in a deep breath with his eyes closed. He hates that he still finds himself charmed by the way the witcher looks, the way he is always so tough and brooding and--he stops himself _right there_. Anger. He’s supposed to be mad.

“Jaskier, you are by far one of the most annoying people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting,” Geralt tastes the words with a grimace, wincing slightly at the way Jaskier’s eyes widen in fury. “But, you’re one of the very few who I want around. That I care about.”

Jaskier doesn’t say a word.

“I’m sorry for hurting you. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I’ve regretted it ever since that moment. I tried to apologize then, but then I doubted myself,” he’s beginning to fumble over his words. “I doubted you’d ever want to see me again. So I left you alone. I thought that would be best for you.”

“Who would’ve thought, the mighty White Wolf doubts himself,” But the comment lacks its usual coldness. For a second, it's like things are normal once again.

“When you’re with me, Jaskier, you’re always the one who ends up hurt. Physically. Emotionally,” He’s careful with his words. “I thought separating from you would help. But I can see it hasn’t.”

Jaskier looks at him for a long, heavy moment. “That day, you said that I was the one who hurt you. Who caused all your problems.”

“No. Well, I did, but I was wrong,” Geralt sighs. “I blamed you for all the things I did. For what destiny wanted, or whatever.”

“Ah, so you believe in destiny now?” Jaskier hums, reaching over to take Geralt’s ale and taking a sip. “You’ve changed quite a bit, haven’t you?”

“And you haven’t, I see,” Geralt looks pointedly at the ale now in Jaskier’s hand. There’s the slightest of smiles on his face.

Jaskier smiles back, softly. He puts the drink down, his expression falling slightly. “I don’t know about that one, Geralt.”

The two sit in an uneasy silence for a long moment. Jaskier playing with the cup, Geralt sitting completely still. It was almost relaxing.

“So where are you off too next, then?” Jaskier looks up at him, a curious tilt of his head.

“Hm,” Geralt eyes him. “Why do you ask?”

“Been thinking about writing again,” Jaskier glances at his lute. “I haven’t really been in the mood for performances and songwriting, but maybe a little adventure might stir something again.”

Geralt looks at him with a small twitch of his lip. “Hm. You stopped?”

“Hard to find things to write about while your witcher is off brooding,” Jaskier hums, giving him a small smile.

“ _Your_ witcher?”

“A very misbehaved one, unfortunately, yes.”

“Hm.”

Another silence fell upon them again. That could truthfully only mean one thing, something was on Jaskier’s mind. Before Geralt could open his mouth to ask, Jaskier answered immediately.

“So, I, er, have a room. But there’s currently a--I’m sure a very lovely woman, very sweet, I could write a whole ballad on her lips alone--I,” He coughs awkwardly into his fist. “I think I’ve lost interest in staying there, if you know what I mean.”

“I have a room. You can stay.”

Jaskier let out a relieved breath. “Right. Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt just nods slightly. Unexpectedly, he leans across the table, causing Jaskier to lean backwards in surprise. He can’t help the noise that escapes his throat as he tries to ignore the painfully obvious blush on his cheeks.

Geralt snatched his ale back, letting his fingers graze Jaskier’s, then gulped the whole thing down. “Let’s go, bard.”

Without waiting for a response, Geralt stands. Jaskier hops up to follow, picking up his lute and swinging it over his shoulder. He follows the witcher up the stairs, to his room, quiet as he creeps past his own. Geralt gestures for him to enter, opening the door slightly for Jaskier who graciously marches through. Though, upon entering, he lets out a slight disappointed noise.

“One bed?”

“Wasn’t expecting company, to be honest,” Geralt moves to place his bag down by the bed, shrugging off his armor. Jaskier watched him struggle, a scene that was painfully familiar. Back when things were normal, Jaskier would’ve offered to help.

“You don’t have to.”

Jaskier blinked furiously. He said it aloud. _Shit_. Well, he couldn’t help himself from walking over anyway. His fingers were delicate and precise as he unfastened the many buckles and straps that kept his armor fastened tight. He sighed. He could do this in his sleep, but he forgot how _intimate_ it was. But, muscle memory kept him going, until Geralt was left with nothing but his regular clothes.

Jaskier pulled away awkwardly, crossing his arms as he glanced at Geralt expectantly.

“Thank you.”

Ah. A thank you was something he could get used to.

“You’re very welcome, Geralt,” Jaskier let his shoulders relax a bit, giving him a soft smile.

But the softness didn’t last, and the awkwardness was quick to return. Jaskier glanced at the bed once again, opening his mouth to say something, then closing it. Geralt raised an eyebrow curiously. Jaskier gestured to the bed with a wave of his hand, giving Geralt a pointed look.

“What.”

“There’s only _one bed_ , Geralt,”

Geralt let out a low noise. “That never seemed to bother you before.”

Jaskier let out an indignant noise, crossing his arms a little over dramatically. “Well, before was--it was _before_!”

“The years have given you much knowledge, bard,” Gerald speaks sarcastically as he makes his way to the bed, taking off his shirt as he does so. He gets in, lying on his side. “Now go to sleep or I’ll knock you out myself.”

Good god. It really was like before, wasn’t it.

Jaskier removed his outer layers and boots, folding them neatly and placing them on the bedside table. He sat down on the bed, wringing his hands in silence.

“Sleep,” Geralt hummed, though it was a borderline growl.

“Right, yes,” Jaskier hurried under the sheets, turning on his side so his back was to Geralt. “Sleep. Goodnight.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier grimaced. Why was he acting so _awkwardly_ , he was supposed to be suave and cool in a situation like this. But here he was, holding his breath as Geralt was inches away, back to back. He couldn’t take it anymore, and couldn’t help himself from flipping over to take a quick peek.

He recognized many of the scars that marked Geralt’s skin, recalling memories of each and every one. He _thought_ he did, at least, until he noticed some newer marks, still pink and raised from fairly recent injuries.

Jaskier hummed. He didn’t realize he had reached out to trace the newer marks with the lightest of touches.

Geralt twitched under his touch. “What, exactly, do you think you’re doing?”

Jaskier snatched his hand away and flipped over. “Sorry, just--I don’t know. Go back to sleep.”

“Hm.”

Jaskier bit his lip, holding back his words. But he couldn’t for very long, they quickly spilled out before he even had a moment to think it through. “I was just--I don’t know. Sad. I forgot how much time has passed. What you might’ve been up to while I was gone, you know?”

“You didn’t miss much.”

“I missed you, didn’t I?”

Geralt hums, without giving an actual response. Not that Jaskier really expected one. Perhaps he liked not knowing everything Geralt was thinking. A blissful sort of ignorance, maybe.

Jaskier was the first to fall asleep, drifting off without so much as a snore. Geralt was awake for a little longer, flipping onto his back. He always seemed to have difficulty getting rest. Though this was different, the bard sleeping soundly beside him felt _right_. It put him at ease, a strange sense of ease he very rarely felt.

Before he could bother thinking about why he felt like that, sleep came to him with welcoming arms.

\-----

Arms.

Jaskier blinked awake. He couldn’t feel his arms, they must have gone numb in his sleep. He just needed to-- _oh_.

He was practically on top of Geralt, his head on the witcher’s chest, arms wrapped around his rather enormous frame. Without thinking, he pulled back, the commotion sure to wake him up. But he should’ve known better, the witcher was clearly awake.

“Morning, Jask.”

Jaskier got out of bed in an instant, picking his clothes off the table where he had left them folded. He grimaced as he put his doublet over him, picking up his lute and bag and starting towards the door.

“I’ll be, er, downstairs,” Jaskier opens his mouth to say something else, his eyes flicking nervously around the room, settling on Geralt, before he shakes his head and leaves.

The tavern is fairly empty when he sits for breakfast, picking at his food with slight distaste. There wasn’t anything wrong with the food. Just with himself.

Everything just fell into place a little too easily. He was so, _so_ upset, for a ridiculous amount of time, and then Geralt shows up out of the blue and everything's okay? He stabs his fork repeatedly into a sausage, definitely causing the bartender to look over at him confused.

Maybe he just realized he wasn’t as angry as he thought. No, that wasn’t it. Maybe over the years he realized he had overreacted, that he should’ve just accepted his apology the first time around. He sighed, a little too loudly.

He just was lonely. Isolation wasn’t his thing, and Geralt truly seemed like he cared. Honestly, there was a part of him that thought that maybe there was an off chance that this was some sort of monster. A monster out to get him, or something, disguised as the man who made him feel more than anyone else in the world, it seemed. The perfect choice. But Jaskier doubted that was the case. He wasn’t important enough to have that sort of thing to happen to him. To have someone masquerading as someone else for the sole purpose of hurting him.

Not important. Not important to the world, not important to history, not important to Geralt. He sighed, looking down at his food once again.

He was so lost in thought, it took the loud squeak of the stool beside him to snap him out of his spiral.

“Ah, Geralt,” Jaskier turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. “Morning.”

Geralt nods slightly at him. “I’ve got an...adventure for you. If you’re still interested.”

Jaskier opens his mouth. He _did_ say so yesterday, that he wanted to go back to how things were. Back to travelling with the witcher, to sharing his feats and tales of peril and heroism through song.

But still, he knew he was supposed to be angry. He was _allowed_ to still be angry. That feeling made his hands shake, which he didn’t realize until Geralt cleared his throat.

“I’m not going to force you to do anything,” Geralt said.

Jaskier looked up at him, eyes round and _afraid_ it seemed. Not at Geralt, most likely the future. Or perhaps himself.

“No, I want to,” Jaskier said with finality, though he furrowed his brows as soon as he had said it. As if he was surprised the words had come out of his mouth. “For old times sake.”

Geralt didn’t say a word, just giving him a slight nod. He hums into his cup, ignoring the persistent stare the bard was unknowingly giving him.

Jaskier bit his lip, lost in thought. Surely this would be like old times, right? Maybe it would help him forget how angry he was. It could help.

He turned, but glanced at the witcher out of the corner of his eyes. He realized, then, as Geralt calmly ate his breakfast, that he had _no idea_ how much time had passed.

Jaskier looked into his cup, a cold feeling settling into his bones. _Dread_. For whenever Geralt finally realizes that Jaskier hasn’t aged a single day from the last time they were together. Even before that. He hasn’t quite been able to place the exact day, but he should be older looking by now, that’s for damn sure.

With a shaky hand, he lifts the cup to his lips, squashing the fear down before the witcher would have the opportunity to sense it himself.

\-----

The trek through the woods was uneventful. The chilly autumn air was refreshing, to say the least, giving the bard a sense of energy he thought he had lost, never to regain again. But no, here he was, strumming once again at the lute he thought he would never touch again.

He hummed a tune, wordless but with enough inflection to show some semblance of emotion. They marched along the road, Jaskier farther ahead than Roach and Geralt, who had chosen to take up the rear.

“So tell me, Geralt, those new scars of yours,” Jaskier continued playing his lute, plucking the strings absentmindedly to a well practiced tune. “What stories have they got? Indulge me, witcher.”

“You would be disappointed over my perspective.”

“And why’s that? Have you changed your mind about heroism? Delved into the darkness of villainy, evil?” Jaskier whips around, a teasing grin stretched wide across his face as he strums harder. “Don’t tell me, you’ve finally decided to stop your little acts of charity, to unlock a magical, evil force within you.”

“No.”

“Ah, maybe possessed by a demon?” Jaskier hums, pausing his song. “Or perhaps lured from your path of honor by a lovely maiden?”

“ _No_ ,” Geralt growled. “I meant, my side of the story is always a little more...realistic than yours.”

“Shame, Geralt! I tell nothing but the truth,” He swings back around, marching with an overabundance of energy. “I just know how to… you know, add a bit of flavor here and there to make the tough meat tender, yes?”

“Hm,” Geralt grunts. “Sounds to me like exaggeration.”

“Exagger—Geralt, my _exaggerations_ have done nothing but benefit you,” Jaskier turns his head slightly to look at him. “Surely you see that.”

Geralt lets out a breathy noise, one Jaskier _swears_ could be considered a laugh. At least in the case of a witcher. He can’t help the smile that grows on his lips, or the way his heart warms with fondness.

He goes back to humming his little tune, the sound of his lute ringing clear through the air. He could get used to this. The calm. The comfort.

\-----

_The chaos._

His heart hammered in his chest, his back pressed up against the trunk of a tree. Geralt swung his sword in an arc, directly down onto the creature's head. The monster let out a gurgling noise as it dodged the blow, clambering away from Geralt with a hiss.

Jaskier watched from the sidelines, chest heaving as he watched the battle. He was useless, sitting here, waiting for a victor to triumph. What was he _supposed_ to do, anyway, sing the thing to death?

Maybe he could whack it with the lute. No, because then it would break and that would be very inconvenient for him. Maybe not Geralt, but that wasn’t important now.

No, instead of doing anything, he watched, grimacing with every blow the creature either hit or avoided. One lethal swing of the Witcher’s sword brought the thing down before it could react, lopping it’s head off with a godawful sound.

Jaskier grimaced, watching the now decapitated head roll slightly away from its corpse. Geralt was breathing heavy, as if he were out of practice. Odd, considering he very much was not, and that they hadn’t managed to go three days without running into another monster. And it had been like this for nearly a _month_.

Geralt lifted his head, turning it slightly in Jaskier’s direction. The bard quickly jumped to his feet, dusting himself off, and made his way over to him.

“You alright, Geralt?” Jaskier looked him over, though he knew full well the witcher was perfectly healthy, probably just tired from battle.

The witcher nodded, wiping his brow clear of sweat. He wiped his blade on his pants, cleaning off the monster’s blood. Jaskier grimaced as he did so, taking a moment to realize that they probably reeked. Geralt especially, having gotten covered by blood yet again.

Jaskier watched the witcher stumble back to their makeshift camp, a frown twitching at his lips. Geralt was clearly exhausted, the past weeks finally catching up to him. Jaskier frowned at that, his stomach churning with a mix of guilt and worry. He relied on Geralt for _so much_ , and did very little to help him. Maybe he was right to leave him behind that day.

Jaskier swallowed his doubts. No, even if Geralt wanted him gone, he was going to try his best to prove himself worthy to stay. And even if he ended up hurting again, he wouldn’t regret his time.

Jaskier took some old cloth, scrapped blankets worn beyond normal use, and headed to the river. He cleaned the blankets as best as he could, then let them soak with water until they were dripping. He bundled them up and headed back to camp.

“Geralt! Take your clothes off,” Jaskier called, stumbling into camp with the wet rags.

Geralt, who was lying on a bed roll, raised an eyebrow at him.

“Take your nasty shirt off,” Jaskier hissed, walking over. “I’m getting soaked.”

Geralt huffs, but complies. Luckily, he isn’t too dirty, just the usual sweat and grime from travel. That doesn’t stop Jaskier from immediately getting to work, however. He scrubs at his skin with the wet cloth, making sure to focus on the dried blood and any scratches Geralt may have accumulated. He’s gentle, for the most part, just rubbing out the obvious soreness in Geralt’s muscles.

Geralt sighs, a long drawn out hum following as he closes his eyes. Jaskier watches his expression soften slightly, feeling a flutter in his chest that he quickly stifles. His voice betrays him anyway, overly soft as he murmurs to the witcher.

“Geralt, you need to rest more. You’re straining yourself,” Jaskier purses his lips, his brows furrowing.

“S’alright. Have to protect you, don’t I?” Geralt doesn’t move until Jaskier pulls away, his eyes opening, but not looking at him.

Jaskier sighs. “You shouldn’t have to. I’m sorry. Get some rest.”

He stands, wiping the dirt off his clothes as he moves to his part of the clearing. Geralt sprawls back out on his bedroll, not bothering to put his shirt on, choosing to wrap himself in a blanket instead.

As Jaskier pulled out his notebook and lute, he saw Geralt stir out of the corner of his eye.

“Jaskier. You never accepted my apology.”

The bard blinked, surprised at the sudden comment. He nearly dropped his quill, his mouth opening to reply, but no idea what to say. Not that it seemed to matter, as the loud snores coming from Geralt’s bedroll seemed to save him from his moment of panic.

“No, Geralt,” Jaskier sighed, looking down at his notebook chock full of heartbroken ballads. “It seems I haven’t.”

\-----

“So what, the Butcher of Blaviken is retired? No longer up for a fight?” The bandit sneered, forcing his boot down harder on Geralt’s chest. He pressed the tip of his blade harder into Geralt’s throat, the point just sharp enough to draw blood.

Geralt grunted out a short response. “I fight monsters, not man.”

“How generous of you, witcher,” the man digs the blade in further, Geralt hissing in pain.

Jaskier watches, horrified. Neither of the men have paid him any mind, which in any other circumstance would have _severely_ offended him, but he didn’t say a word. He was just a bard after all, what were they expecting him to do? Recite a poem a little too aggressively?

No, but Jaskier couldn’t ignore the feeling that bubbled within him. Deep, something he almost didn’t recognize as himself. At the sound of Geralt in pain, his eyes narrowed to slits, watching the scene with a cautious, careful eye. He tore his gaze away to look around the camp for anything he could grab and—ah. Just out of reach, half out of his bag was his dagger. If he just—

“Should we kill you first, witcher?” The man digs his heel into Geralt’s chest, hard enough to send him gasping for air. “Or maybe put on a little show with your pretty little bard friend?”

At that, Geralt’s nostrils flared as he growled a loud “ _no_ ”. He tried to break away from the hold, but the bandit was firm.

“Don’t struggle, Geralt. If you don’t want us touching him, then you should stay _obedient_.”

Geralt struggled harder. “You lay a finger on him and I’ll—”

The sound of steel sinking into flesh rang out into the clearing. Geralt let out a sharp groan, followed by harsh breathing. Jaskier stares at the sword, now lodged firmly into Geralt’s shoulder. If he moved, he’d risk damaging himself further, so he was trapped entirely.

But the _sound_. Not even the sound of the injury. _Geralt’s_ sound, his hitched breath, his surprised shout in pain. Something flicked inside Jaskier, that same feeling from before. Coldness. Dark.

Jaskier tightened his jaw, any sense of self preservation gone in a second. Without so much as a plan or thought, he leapt for his bag, reaching for the dagger. The loud _shing!_ of metal against metal rang out into the previously quiet clearing, startling the bandits from their little show. Before they could even turn around, Jaskier was already jumping on the second bandit, steadying himself with a leg wrapped around his waist and a hand on the man's shoulder, shoving the dagger as hard and deep as he could into the crook of the man's throat.

The man let out a surprised gurgling noise as blood began to dribble from his mouth. He fell to his knees, taking Jaskier down with him, but that wasn’t enough. Jaskier ripped the blade from the flesh, rolling himself over to straddle him. His hands tight on the dagger, he drove the blade down into his heart. Once. He faintly heard the sound of his name being called. Twice. Again and again and again and—

“Jaskier! _Stop_!”

Jaskier looked down at the man below him. His shirt was now stained with red, completely brutalized, hardly held together with the shreds and tears that now littered the fabric. Jaskier’s chest heaved, his breath heavy, heart pounding. His hands were covered in blood, he could feel the sticky warmth on his face, too, splattered over his skin. Worst of all was the sense of _satisfaction_ practically bursting from his chest, like the feeling of a build up of tension and then _release_.

Jaskier’s gaze flicked to Geralt, who was looking at him with the slightest bit of shock. Oh, how lovely to see that look in his eyes, maybe even a bit of disgust in there as well. At least he made him feel _something_. That was enough for Jaskier.

The bard stood, yanking the blade from the now still body beneath him. He gave the bandit a sickeningly sweet smile, rolling the dagger lazily in his hand as he stepped towards him.

“Why don’t you take your sword out of my friend? And then you can walk away and pretend this never happened?” Jaskier stretched out his arm, enough so that the tip of the dagger now rested just above the man's Adam’s apple. Oh, watching it bob as he gulped just fueled him further, his grin widening.

“You’re _sick_ ,” the man spoke, almost incredulous. “Nice to know the Witcher’s pet songbird’s learned a few tricks over the years.”

“Oh, you think you’re funny, do you?” Jaskier let out a low laugh. “Keep it coming, I’d be more than elated to steal a dead man's jokes.”

“Jaskier—”

The bandits gaze flicked down to Geralt, and Jaskier took that as an invitation. He stabbed his blade into the man’s throat just as Geralt shoved him off his chest. Jaskier yanked the blade from the man who fell, stumbling backwards as he clutched at his throat, choking.

Jaskier ignored him, walking over to Geralt, eyeing the sword protruding from his shoulder. That cold, emotionless look still fogging up the bard’s icy blue gaze.

Geralt grunted, moving to grip the wound as he sat up. “ _Jaskier_ \--”

Without any warning, Jaskier gripped the hilt of the sword, yanking it out of Geralt as he groaned in pain. There was a part of Jaskier, a very small, very hurt part of Jaskier, that was screaming within. _Finally, you get an_ ounce _of the pain I feel!_

Jaskier blinked quickly, the icy feeling leaving his body the second he made eye contact with Geralt. The man looked at him with a mix of confusion, but there was something else, something deeper. _Guilt_.

The bard pulled away awkwardly, realizing he was basically hunching over Geralt. Giving him some space, he began to realize what a mess he was. Blood covered his hands and had splattered onto his clothes. Not to mention, his face and hair felt crusty as the blood began to dry.

“I’m going to bathe,” Jaskier spoke with a voice that was unlike his own, without its usual brightness or inflection. Before waiting for a response, he turned and headed straight towards the nearby river.

\-----

The next day, tension was tight between the two. Geralt was staring at Jaskier the whole morning, watching him pace around camp, washing clothes (he _did_ give him privacy to bathe, however), and plucking at his lute with a disinterested look. It was obvious the bard noticed him looking, but he didn’t say anything. At least, not for a while. Eventually he snapped.

“What do you want, Geralt?”

Geralt regarded him, mulling over his words for a moment. “I want to know what was up with yesterday.”

Jaskier huffed, putting his lute down at his side. “Forget about it.”

“You _killed_ them,” Geralt shook his head, still ridden with disbelief. “And there was that look in your eye like you--like you _enjoyed_ it.”

Jaskier blinks at him, his frown deepening. “I didn’t enjoy it, Geralt. I’m not--” he sighed.

“What happened after we--” Geralt shook his head with a grimace. “--after I left you?”

The bard felt his shoulders sag in defeat, looking at him with a downcast look. He was hesitating, the witcher could practically see the words running through his brain, could hear his heart pick up in speed as he thought. He was patient though, he knew better than to force the words out of him. He wanted _forgiveness_ , though he knew he wasn’t quite worthy yet.

“I--I had to survive without you, Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice had an edge to it, like the very blade he had defended himself with. Like he was defending himself now. “And you know trouble tends to find me. I had to protect myself from the world. I’m not some monster hunter. I don’t fight strigas or werewolves or bruxas. I needed to fight _men_.”

Geralt hummed. “The worst beasts of all.”

Jaskier looked up at him, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Are you--are you upset? With me, I mean.”

Geralt gave him a confused look. “Why should I be? I should be thanking you. In fact, I will now. Thank you, Jask, for protecting me.”

“Well, I--” Jaskier stared at him incredulously, the words stuttering out of his mouth. “I mean, right. You’re welcome, I suppose. Um.”

“There’s something else on your mind.”

_There’s a_ million _things on my mind, thank you very much_ , Jaskier thought bitterly, but his words were smooth. “I just wanted to say that I forgive you. I think. I’m pretty sure I do, at least.”

Geralt stiffened, his eyes flashing with what Jaskier _swears_ was hope. Of all things.

“I mean, I can’t say I’m not still hurting. I am. I’m stubborn, but you know that,” Jaskier fumbled, bringing his hands to his temples. “But regardless, I accept your apology. I want things to go back to how they were, I want to travel with you. You piss me off _so much_ but I can't help but want to _be with you_ , all the damn time. I want--”

Jaskier’s eyes widened a bit. Geralt stares at him, unblinking.

Then, he smiles. It’s genuine. It’s not small. It’s sweet.

“I want to be with you too, lark.”

\-----

And so, together they stayed. Months passed, things shifted back to normal. Jaskier had written songs of their latest adventures, performing at the taverns and inns they chose to stay at. He had enough coin from those little events to keep his clothes fresh and relevant with the ever shifting fashions. Maybe he purchased some perfumes here and there, but he was allowed his vanity.

Geralt stuck to his usual jobs which were as follows: brooding in the corner of a bar, getting approached by a desperate man with a pitiful amount of coin for the monster that needed killing, and then killing said monster. A simple life, one Jaskier had to work hard to make sound like something worthy of a heroic ballad. He accepted the challenge, however.

This night, in particular, had Jaskier putting his all in his performance. The innkeeper had offered them a couple nights stay for a good enough show, and Jaskier was more than happy to oblige. The crowd, though smaller than he would’ve liked, met his energy equally, loud and boisterous and begging for more.

Eventually, he felt a warm gaze on him as he wrapped up his song. To be fair, that gaze has been on him the whole time, but only now had he decided to give it any attention. Geralt was doing as he always did, sipping his ale quietly in the corner of the tavern, waiting for his bard to return to him once more. And he did.

“And how would you rate me tonight, my dear?” Jaskier snapped his fingers at a barmaid, who rushed to bring him a drink. “A review. Three words or less, that’s all I need.”

“You’re quite charming.”

“Technically that’s three and a half, but I’ll give you a pass, witcher,” Jaskier hums as he sips his drink, still brimming with energy. “How are you holding out? Crowd too much? Need to go to the room?”

Geralt shook his head. “Not until you do.”

Jaskier smiled. “It’s just a tavern, Geralt. I don’t need protecting here.”

“Hm. Doubtful.”

Jaskier sneered at him playfully, his gaze fond as he played with his cup. “This reminds me a lot of when we first met, you know. Not to sound all sentimental, but I’m being sentimental.”

Geralt sighs loudly.

“Oh shut up, don’t give me that,” Jaskier waves a hand. “Me, freshly graduated and learning of the world, picking up scraps of bread before being snatched away by the White Wolf himself. Well, I suppose you were _Butcher_ at that point, but that doesn’t have as nice a ring to it.”

“You only think White Wolf has a ring to it because you came up with it.”

“I _did_ , and that is precisely why it has such a ring to it!” Jaskier puffs his chest out a bit with pride. “Let us not forget ‘Toss a Coin’ or, should I say, the start of it all.”

Geralt smiles, letting out a sigh that Jaskier has become very familiar with. It was basically Geralt’s version of a laugh, which wasn’t the type of laughter Jaskier was used to. But, he was satisfied based on the fact that it was Geralt’s alone.

But then Geralt frowns, thinking. Hard lines stretch across his face as he lowers his mug to the table. “How long ago was that?”

Jaskier raises an eyebrow, but realization dawns on him. His body goes cold, his hands falling from the table to his lap, where he starts to wring them. “I’m not sure what you mean?”

“How _old_ are you, Jaskier?” Geralt frowns, his gaze intense. Jaskier struggles to maintain the contact.

Okay, Geralt can _definitely_ hear his heart race. Or perhaps smell the fear coming off him. It doesn’t matter. The words come out before he can think of an excuse.

“Geralt, Geralt, you know it’s—,” Jaskier laughs awkwardly, waving a hand. “—it’s awfully rude to ask a man how old he is. How old do I look?”

Geralt grunts. “A lot younger than you’re supposed to be.”

“I take care of myself?” It was supposed to be a statement, but his voice cracks.

Suddenly, Geralt pales. Well, pales more than he already was. His knuckles turn nearly white as he grips his mug, something clearly dawning on him. He looks _horrified_ for once. Jaskier looks at him, awestruck, but also a bit terrified. But then, when the witcher speaks, it’s like time freezes for just the two of them.

“It’s my fault.”

Jaskier blinks for what feels like a solid minute. Then, he regains his voice to blurt out the most well thought out question he could manage. “What?”

“It’s my fault, Jask, I—” Geralt stutters through his words, shaking his head. Any other day, Jaskier would’ve paid any sum of gold in the world to see Geralt’s stone cold exterior crumble just a bit, but now that it was happening, he wished for nothing more than its end.

“Geralt, talk to me,” Jaskier reached out and put a hand on Geralt’s, who only flinched slightly. He took that as a win.

“The djinn,” It’s like Geralt is looking through him, which is starting to piss him off, but he stifles that. “The third wish.”

Jaskier shakes his head. “Geralt, you’re not making any _fucking_ sense, and I know that’s kind of your thing, but when it’s about _me_ —”

“My last wish for the djinn. When we met Yennefer. I—I wasn’t sure if you were going to be okay, and I needed to use the last wish so,” Geralt sighs. “Djinn are tricky with words. They’ll find ways of wreaking havoc in any way they can manage.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice was cold, low, his grip on Geralt’s hand tightening. “What did you wish for?”

Geralt finally, _finally_ looks at him. “Your protection. I think the djinn—I think it made you… protected from more than just danger.”

“Ah,” Jaskier hummed, pulling his hand away. “Like old age, then.”

“That, amongst other things.”

Jaskier frowned, sitting in silence as his mind grappled with the new information. Was he supposed to be mad? Having a wish made _for_ you was a weird situation to be in. Should he curse Geralt? Thank him? He had no idea.

“I’m sorry, fuck, this wasn’t—” Geralt pinched the bridge of his nose. “I cursed you, Jask, I’m so fucking sorry. I hurt you again, I can’t keep doing this.”

Jaskier once again grips his hand. “Hey, listen. We’ll figure it out. And, in the meantime, I just get to stick around you for longer. We’ll figure it out when we need to.”

“You should be mad at me,” Geralt looks at him with an expression of sorrow that nearly _destroys_ Jaskier on the spot.

“No, no. I think I’ve had more than enough of that.”

\-----

Ever since they figured out the cause of Jaskier’s newfound immortality (though neither of them really liked to call it that), they had set out to undo it. Geralt had _insisted_ that they spoke with Yennefer, but Jaskier was too stubborn.

“No. _No_ , absolutely not. Not only is she freaky as hell, but the _last_ thing I want,” Jaskier huffs, crossing his arms indignantly. “Is to owe her.”

Frankly, Geralt couldn’t argue with that.

Instead, he had convinced him to at least see a mage, anyone, just to see if there was something they could do. Geralt noticed the moment of hesitation as Jaskier mulled his request over, before quietly agreeing. Before he could even ask what was wrong, the bard had stood up to perform another song for the tavern.

Geralt watched him go, both to quietly enjoy the bard’s little show, but because he was worried. He loathed to admit it, but the bard was beginning to take up his mind more than he felt was acceptable, at least for him. Maybe loathed was a strong word. Perhaps something akin to disappointment, knowing that he couldn’t stop himself from fretting over the man.

“Are you two…?” Geralt jumped a bit at the sound of a man sliding to sit across from him. He scowled, he had let his guard down for a mere minute or so, and look at him. Weak.

“Mind your business,” Geralt growled.

The man just chuckled, which if Geralt was paying any more attention, he’d probably punch him. But he didn’t, so the man continued. “Pardon me for intruding I suppose. I can just tell that something’s bothering you both.”

“Hm.”

“You should talk about it,” The man sips his ale, watching the bard for a moment before turning back to Geralt. “He’s a special one. After all, who would follow a witcher around for decades, giving _you_ the fame _he_ deserves?”

“You think he’s jealous?” Geralt raises an eyebrow, then purses his lips. He didn’t _ask_ Jaskier to do that stuff.

“No, no, I doubt it, actually,” The man smiles warmly at him. “Maybe he just uses it as an excuse to be with you.”

Geralt doesn’t say a word. Instead, he turns to watch Jaskier as he flits around the tavern, strumming his lute with genuine joy. He reeks of jubilation, causing the smallest of smiles to tug at Geralt’s lips.

“Talk to him,” The man gets up and pats him on the shoulder. “People like him, they need communication. All people do.”

Before he can stop himself, Geralt murmurs quietly. “I’m not good with words.”

“You don’t have to be good with words to communicate, Witcher,” The man raised his mug slightly towards Geralt, giving him a small smile before walking away. “Actions can be just as powerful.”

Geralt grunted a half hearted response, turning his attention back on Jaskier. His song had shifted to a more somber note, a song Geralt had never heard before. His conversation with the stranger had caused him to miss most of it, but he still caught the ending.

Jaskier was seated on a table, plucking his lute a few strings at a time, his voice soft and light as he whispered the words. There was an expression on his face that Geralt had never seen before, something like longing, _yearning_ , and painfully distant.

“ _Say those words to me, my dear,_  
 _Send me away again with your intentions clear,_  
 _I long only for you in the dead of night,_  
 _My love is strong, so please, hold on tight._ ”

Jaskier closed his eyes as he played the last note, letting out a light sigh. The patrons of the bar clapped at his song, and he gave them the smallest of thank yous. He looked up, directly at Geralt. He gave the man a weak smile, a slight nod with pursed lips, and slung the lute over his shoulder. With one last bow, he left the tavern and headed to their shared room.

Geralt gave him a few minutes to collect himself, then followed shortly after. The room was dark aside from the single candle that Jaskier was sitting beside, writing into his notebook. He had already changed out of his travelling clothes and had seated himself on the tiny desk in the corner of the room. He hadn’t even noticed Geralt walking in.

Geralt watched him work for a moment, watching the way he rubbed his arm as if cold. Without thinking, Geralt took a blanket off of one of the beds, and walked over to Jaskier. He wrapped his shoulders, ignoring the way the bard flinched at his touch, and rested a hand on the small of his back.

“I liked it. Your last song,” Geralt furrowed his brows at himself, kicking himself mentally for sounding so awkward.

Jaskier turned slightly, glancing up at him as he closed his book. He wrapped the blanket around him tighter. “Yeah? You’ve never complimented my music before.”

“I realize that. It’s good,” Geralt gives him an awkward pat on the shoulder. “Better than good, really. You’re a true artist.”

Jaskier smiled at that. “Well, someone has to retell the feats of the great Geralt of Rivia. I’d rather die than let someone else take my place.”

“You’re not going to die, not if I have any say,” Geralt said, his voice low. When he says that, something flashes in Jaskier’s eyes. Almost immediately, the bard has set up his walls once again, sealing himself away. Geralt pulls his hand away, tilting his head slightly in confusion.

Jaskier had looked away in that instant, but looked back up to him once he felt the warmth of Geralt’s hand leave him. “Geralt, listen, I…” He didn’t continue.

“Do you want to talk?” Geralt looked at him intently. “You know I’m not any good, but--”

“Geralt, I _am_ going to die if we get this djinn thing, uh, ‘fixed’ for lack of a better term,” Jaskier stands suddenly, Geralt pulling away in surprise. “I--I won’t be able to, you know, travel with you. I’ll go back to aging, and eventually I won’t even be….”

Geralt let him gather his thoughts, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m just _human_ , Geralt. I can’t do the things you can, I don’t live as long as a witcher, I…” Jaskier’s brows knit together as he breaks eye contact with Geralt, looking down. “I simply can’t bear the thought of things not being like--like this.”

He gestures between the two of them, then around the room. Geralt still doesn’t speak, he can feel the way the bard hitches his breath to continue, voice strained and tired.

“I just--Geralt, I lost you once before. And I really, _truly_ don’t think I can ever handle something like that again. And if I go back to how I was, I won’t get that choice to keep you to myself forever,” Jaskier lets out a dark laugh. “Listen to me. I sound so _greedy_ , like you’re something to be owned.”

Geralt hummed. “I won’t leave you.”

“Somehow, that’s not what I’m worried about anymore,” Jaskier sighs. “It’s the thought of me not being able to keep up with you, I’d get too slow, my fingers won’t be able to work the strings of my lute. Everything that makes me _me_ would be lost.”

“Don’t treat humanity like a death sentence, Jask,” Geralt takes the bard’s chin between his thumb and index finger, forcing him to look him in the eye. “You’re more than your music, you’re so much more.”

Jaskier tries to ignore the way his eyes water. “Am I, though? If not a musician, not a bard, then what am I? What am I t _o you_ Geralt? _What am I?!_ ”

Geralt lets his thumb run over Jaskier’s cheek, stopping at the corner of his mouth. “You’re the only person I want around me. Forever.”

Jaskier’s lip trembled, but it broke into a smile as he let out a choked laugh. “Oh, don’t say things like that, else you’ll never get me to leave.”

“That’s the point, lark. I want you to stay.”

\-----

The two had wordlessly agreed to forget about the mage, to forget about trying to “cure” Jaskier’s newfound immortality. It was a weird concept for Jaskier to deal with, but his enthusiasm over his ageless body was enough for him to wipe his doubts away without second thought. He had _time_ now, to do whatever he pleased, as he wanted. No more fretting over miniscule things.

Of course, that didn’t mean he was _completely_ free of worry. No, he still had his moments.

“What if someone notices, in like, a decade?” Jaskier paces around their camp. “I write another song, it goes nuts over the country, but then people realize that, hey, that sounds just like that ‘Toss a Coin’ fellow from decades ago. And then they see me perform and recognize me and--”

“Jaskier.”

“Right. Sorry,” Jaskier crossed his arm, a slight pout on his face. “It _is_ something to consider, though.”

“We’ll deal with it when we get there,” Geralt finishes starting the fire, which Jaskier quickly leans into, rubbing his hands together.

The setting sun brought a chill to the woods around them. They had set up their camp on the shore of a river, harder to be ambushed, Geralt had said. But even just the sound of the water running had Jaskier feeling oddly cold.

“Love your optimism, dear, it’s a great look on you,” Jaskier laughs at the murderous look on Geralt’s face. “But _that_ suits you the best, doesn’t it?”

“Hm.”

Jaskier puts a hand on his chest. “Your words inspire me. _You_ should be the bard.”

Geralt just sighs, and moves over to roll out his bedroll. “Are you going to sleep, or do you want first watch?”

“Not yet,” Jaskier pulls his book and a quill out from his bag, eyes skimming over what he’s written in it. “Go ahead and sleep.”

Geralt grunts, lying down. Jaskier studied the way the witcher’s white hair spread out around his head, pieces stuck to his face that he so desperately wanted to reach out and tuck behind the witcher’s ear. But he refrained, choosing to take in the sight and write about it instead.

Seeing Geralt so at ease was enough for Jaskier to feel like a giddy child. The amount of trust that Geralt needed to let his guard down like this was _immense_ , so it was satisfying for Jaskier to realize how much the witcher was trying. He didn’t quite understand why he was so open suddenly, but he wasn’t complaining, not at all.

Geralt had started complimenting the bits of music Jaskier was working on, new pieces he tested and tried and usually scrapped. He gave his insights and, despite being god awful at words and emotion, he did have an alright opinion on the music itself. Of course, Jaskier just teased him relentlessly over how awkward the witcher was, but it was out of something akin to love.

Ah, that word again.

Was Jaskier in love? He wasn’t quite sure. When he was younger, he chalked it up to simple infatuation. He was young, he was pretty dumb, and how could you _not_ be drawn to such a figure? The brooding look, that constant pissed off aura. He couldn’t resist.

Okay, maybe the feelings lingered. And maybe Geralt was doing things and saying things that made his heart beat just a bit faster. Like that night in the tavern, or even just the small smiles he gave the bard here and there. What made his heart flutter the most was those precious, little touches Geralt would give him.

A hand on his shoulder whenever they were in a crowd so he didn’t get lost, or the flat palm pressed in the small of his back as he guided him in unfamiliar places. Or the protective grip around his shoulders whenever Jaskier got himself into trouble. He knew the witcher didn’t like words, but with every touch he spoke a thousand words.

Jaskier pulled his gaze back into his notebook, realizing his quill had just been dripping ink onto the page. He wiped it away as best as he could, but he wasn’t in the mindset to write. Instead, he closed the book and tucked it away. If Geralt wasn’t trying to sleep, he’d play some notes on his lute. Regardless, he just leaned closer to the fire, warming his hands as he did so.

The silence of the woods was starting to weigh in. Before Jaskier could even take note of it, there was a loud splash that came from the river. Jaskier stood up quickly, peering into the dark, murky waters without much thought. It was probably just a fish. Nothing to worry about.

His foot slipped over a wet stone, and he fell right on his ass with a squawk. Before he could stand up, a claw like hand wrapped around his ankle, and yanked him towards the river. He watched in horror as the creature had managed to nearly drag him in the water despite his frantic kicking and shouting. With his resistance, the creature moved upwards, digging its claws deep into Jaskier’s abdomen, tearing the fresh with the same ease as a freshly sharpened blade.

Pain seared through his body, his vision going white as he let out a cry of agony. The creature did not stop, kept pulling him and pulling him without a care. He needed Geralt to--

The witcher’s silver blade flashed in the light of the dying fire, coming down with more ferocity than Jaskier swears he’s ever seen. The creature’s grip loosened, gone completely slack, but Jaskier couldn’t move even if he wanted to.

His legs felt like jelly, he could feel nothing but white hot pain burning from the wound in his stomach, his chest heaving as he felt his world closing in around him.

“G-Geralt,” Jaskier panted, his eyes darting around as his vision went blurry. “Please, Geralt, I--”

“I’ve got you,” Geralt was next to him, putting a hand on his shoulder as his other lifted his shirt to examine the wound.

Jaskier couldn’t move his head to look, his eyes still searching frantically for the warmth of those golden yellow eyes. Anything. He just needed to see his witcher one last time. His head felt light, his thoughts growing sluggish.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” Jaskier can’t hold back the tears, or the hitched breath. “I’m going to die after all, then?”

“ _No_.” But there was a pain in Geralt’s voice that, even in his delirium, he could understand. Grief.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. J-just,” Jaskier gasped as the pain jolted through his body once again. Through a clenched jaw, he hissed. “Let me see you. I can’t--I can’t move to look at you.”

He reached blindly for Geralt’s face, which came into view. He let his hand trace over the sharp edges of Geralt’s face, trying to ignore how cold and shaky his hand was. He tucked a strand behind Geralt’s ear, cupping his face and holding it there. Geralt let out a pained noise, then leaned down to press his forehead against Jaskier’s.

And then he cries.

Jaskier doesn’t even realize the choked noises and sniffs are coming from Geralt until he blinks his eyes open, the feeling of a teardrop falling onto his cheek. He watches the witcher cry, his heart throbbing for him, knowing that this is the last he’ll see and knowing that that’s _okay_. And his hand, still cupping Geralt’s cheek, with one last bit of strength, pulls him even closer.

And then their lips are brushing. And then Jaskier tilts his chin up just enough to press his lips against Geralt’s. And then they’re kissing.

Geralt is softer here than Jaskier could have ever imagined, as if he’s afraid Jaskier was going to break under his touch. And, given the circumstances, Jaskier holds back a laugh. What else is there left to break?

There’s a warmth that goes unnoticed for a moment, a warmth coming from Jaskier’s stomach, from his wound. Without thinking, he puts a hand there, and what he feels is--

“Geralt.”

His voice is surprisingly clear, strong, even. Geralt startles and pulls back, looking down at Jaskier’s hand. The wound, somehow, had begun to heal before his eyes, the flesh seeming to knit itself together with some form of--

“Magic. Jaskier, the _djinn_ ,” Geralt watches the wound close completely, then looks up at Jaskier with golden eyes brimming with relief.

“Protection, right?” Jaskier’s voice is a little scratchy, but the pain is already starting to fade. He sits up as much as he can, which is only him propped up on his elbows. He laughs lightly, still a bit numb. “Guess I owe you again, huh, you’re always protecting me, witcher.”

And before he can say anything else, Geralt pulls him in, kissing him so hard and breathless he lets out a surprised squeak. But here, held tight in the witcher’s arms, he melts away to nothing but warm adoration.

“I said I’d never leave you again, lark,” Geralt spoke, his voice ragged. “So don’t you _dare_ think about leaving me.”

They pull away from each other, Geralt now stroking Jaskier’s wet cheek with the back of his finger. Jaskier leans into his touch, closing his eyes for a moment before blinking slowly at him.

“I don’t think I could ever do that,” Jaskier murmurs. “Fortunately or unfortunately, it seems like you’re stuck with me, Witcher.”

Geralt smiles, soft and small. He leans in to press a long kiss on the bard’s forehead, holding him close for a prolonged moment. And it’s nice. It’s nicer than Jaskier could have ever dreamed of. And he thinks that, even if he had died, he would have been happy if it meant he could have this for just a moment.

But it’s not just a moment. It’s _forever_ , and they get to spend it like this.

Together, side by side through history, not even destiny could break them apart. In each other’s embrace, protecting each other from the cold darkness of the wood, of the world, they had hope.

Jaskier smiled, letting out a small, breathy laugh. At Geralt’s noise of confusion, he murmured softly into the witcher’s chest.

“This is going to make one hell of a song.”

**Author's Note:**

> if you stuck with it for this long, thank you! i have more plans for these two up to and including dragon!jaskier, as i have DIVED head first into that headcanon, which my heart yearns for it to be canon but i know it wont be. im sensitive abt it
> 
> upcoming plans are to have a series of fics focusing on creature!jaskier, and the multitude of funky things that funky little bard could possibly be. is this an excuse to write a vampire!jaskier fic? absolutely not (it is. it is.) i was also down to take suggestions/requests for potential creatures, so i'm always down for ideas
> 
> lastly, if you'd like to find me anywhere you can find me on tumblr at rosesapphire.tumblr.com. stop by and say hi!
> 
> thanks again for reading! kudos + comments help tremendously!


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